The rose and<109.2> other fragrant flowers smell best, When they are pluck'd and worn in hand or brest, So this fair flow'r of vertue, this rare bud Of wit, smells now as fresh as when he stood; And in these Posthume-Poems lets us know, He on<109.3> the banks of Helicon did grow. The beauty of his soul did correspond With his sweet out-side: nay, it went<109.4> beyond. Lovelace, the minion<109.5> of the Thespian dames, Apollo's darling, born with Enthean flames, Which in his numbers wave and shine so clear, As sparks refracted from<109.6> rich gemmes appear; Such flames that may inspire, and atoms cast, To make new poets not like him in hast.<109.7> Jam. Howell. <109.1> These lines, originally printed as above, were included by Payne Fisher in his collection of Howell's Poems, 1663, 8vo., where they may be found at p. 126. Fisher altered the superscription in his ill-edited book to "Upon the Posthume-POEMS of Mr. Lovelace." <109.2> WITH--Howell's Poems. <109.3> THAT HE UPON--ibid. <109.4> IF NOT GO BEYOND--ibid. <109.5> Fr. MIGNON, darling. <109.6> So in Howell's Poems. LUCASTA has IN. <109.7> "Such sparks that with their atoms may inspire The reader with a pure POETICK fire." Howell's POEMS. AN ELEGIE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MY LATE HONOURED FRIEND, COLLONELL RICHARD LOVELACE. Pardon (blest shade), that I thus crowd to be 'Mong those that sin unto thy memory, And that I think unvalu'd reliques spread, And am the first that pillages the dead; Since who would be thy mourner as befits, But an officious sacriledge commits. How my tears strive to do thee fairer right, And from the characters divide my sight. Untill it (dimmer) a new torrent swells, And what obscur'd it, falls my spectacles Let the luxurious floods impulsive rise, As they would not be wept, but weep the eyes, The while earth melts, and we above it lye But the weak bubbles of mortalitie; Until our griefs are drawn up by the Sun, And that (too) drop the exhalation. How in thy dust we humble now our pride, And bring thee a whole people mortifi'd! For who expects not death, now thou art gone, Shows his low folly, not religion. Can the poetick heaven still hold on The golden dance, when the first mover's gon? And the snatch'd fires (which circularly hurl'd) In their strong rapture glimmer to the world, And not stupendiously rather rise The tapers unto these solemnities? Can the chords move in tune, when thou dost dye, At once their universal harmony? But where Apollo's harp (with murmur) laid, Had to the stones a melody convey'd, They by some pebble summon'd would reply In loud results to every battery; Thus do we come unto thy marble room, To eccho from the musick of thy tombe. May we dare speak thee dead, that wouldest be In thy remove only not such as we? No wonder, the advance is from us hid;